Love Hurts
by xStrix
Summary: Oneshot. Harley just wants his attention. That's all she's ever wanted from him, but he never seems to care. He hurts her, then she gets mad and leaves the bastard for dead, but then the twist comes in... she comes crawling right back into his arms. It's all just one huge, manipulative cycle.


**I edited this story, so I hope that it reflects a bit better on Harley's character.**

* * *

She glared across the room, sitting under her legs with her back pressed against old, peeling wallpaper. With hands crossing over her chest and her back straightening out, the stare only intensified, this time with a challenging raise of the eyebrows. She had this defiant edge to just about everything she did, and whatever she was staring at, it didn't like that. Not. One. Bit.

She didn't even know what she was staring at in the first place; it was originally just a dark spot in the dim room. Then it manifested into something on it's own accord. And there it was, staring her down just as fiercely as she was to it.

She wasn't quite sure what it resembled just yet, but it did have horrendously black eyes, and they looked oh so familiar. When her gaze shifted to just about anything else other than the eyes, it let out an animalistic sound of warning and her stare shot back up to those soulless black pits with annoyance.  
At least the thing had control over one aspect of the encounter, and she knew that it would cling onto it for as long as it could if it meant staying in the real world longer.

She sighed. When was he going come back?  
The mere thought of him sent her heart fluttering away with happiness.

She knew that her babe was in a bad line of business where anything that _could_ go wrong, _did_ go wrong, but he always had the situation under control no matter what. He was one of the most feared men in the whole city, if not _the_ most feared, and she knew that to have such an honorable title, he had to spread that fear just a bit thicker every now and again.

But it was so _boring _to be crammed up in the hideout, waiting for his return for days on end. She couldn't risk leaving – what would happen if he came home and needed medical attention, and she wasn't there to help? He could barely hold a needle and thread still long enough to stitch himself up right, and he even had the scars to prove it. Although, she did like to think he did that one on purpose.

The thing snorted in dissatisfaction at her thoughts. It didn't want him to return. It would be gone the instant that jerk steps through the door, leaving it to completely dissipate back into her mind where it belonged.  
So for the time being, they just stared at each other endlessly. She was starting to make out some defining features, such as the bridge of it's nose and the small curve of the top lip. The real strange part was that skin had no texture to it, or at least, none she could describe properly.

"Weird, weird, _weird_," she repeated under her breath, inwardly smiling when it narrowed it's eyes at her. It hasn't taken it's scrutinizing stare away ever since it first formed, but that didn't affect her in the slightest. It's not like she had anything _better_ to stare at, and certainly nothing was more interesting than the shadowy figure on the opposite side of the room.

Time was somewhere far off in a distant land, leaving the two behind to revel in the aftermath. So she sat there motionless for what felt like hours, just staring and staring. It stared back.

… And then it shifted, almost uncomfortably, into a rigid crouching position. Harley gave it a questioning look, and all it did was curl its lip in anger. The slam of a car door and some incoherent grumbling shook her awake and she got to her feet. _He_ was here.

The thing begrudgingly faded into the wall it was leaning against while Harley's attention was turned to the front door. On her tip-toes and breath held, she just couldn't _wait_ to see him. A smile cross her lips when she heard the tell-tale clink of his keys dropping to the pavement, followed by the fumbling of fingers as he picked them up and noisily searched for his newest 'house key'.

When the door finally opened, her heart dropped.

He was _pissed_. And covered in blood, and bruised, yet sickly euphoric in a way only he could do. She refused the urge to shake her head in disappointment – he was out fighting the Batman _again_. That meant one thing and one thing only: she would be pushed to the side _again.  
_The notion was correct. He didn't even give her so much as a glance as he shoved past her and went into his self-proclaimed study, slamming the door behind him. It shook the whole house, much like how he shook up Harley with his lack of actions – well, at least, lack of actions towards _her_.

All she could do was stand there dumbly, curling her bare toes against wood panels with her stare transfixed on the closed door down the hall. He shut her out in more ways than one, and it made her heart ache unbearably so for his touch, his voice... hell, even his _presence _would make the pain go away.  
But Mr. J was never one to hand out any sort of kindness, especially to someone like her.

Her eyes stung with tears and a strangled cry escaped her throat before it closed in on itself. She felt pathetic with herself, that something so minor could bring her to tears _so_ easily. She was sure that he felt the same way, and the fact alone made the tears brim over and a frown form on her lips.

With stains on either sides of her cheeks, she turned on her heel towards the bathroom. She flicked on the switch, and after a few seconds' hesitation, a dull yellow light buzzed to life. When she looked in the mirror, her face fell emotionless and a hand shot up to wipe away the tears. She bit her lip and leaned over the sink as baby blue eyes raked over her appearance.

… What _was_ it?

Was it the lack of makeup?  
She didn't waste any time opening up the medicine cabinet and pulling out some cosmetics, applying the stuff carefully around her eyes with lips slightly parted. She patted on some light cover-up and added a pleasant shade of dark gray on her eyelids. And as she put on a fresh coat of lip gloss, she couldn't help but look down.

Was it the clothes?  
She analyzed the simple black top and velvety red shorts she had thrown on earlier that morning with distaste. Maybe the shorts could be shorter. She rolled them up until they were just barely covering her butt and just barely reaching her hip bones at the top, and then took notice of the shirt. She tugged it down to reveal more of her cleavage and raised it up at the bottom to show off the tanned skin there on her hips. At least the shirt was tight, that much was grateful for. Her eyes lingered on her figure, and after she decided it looked good enough, they slowly made their way to the top of her head.

Was it the hair?  
Bleached blonde hair was pulled back and separated into the usual loose and wavy pigtails, letting the length of them flow down just a few inches past her shoulders. There were strands of shorter hair sticking out every which way atop her head, some of them falling into her face as well. Oh, it was definitely the hair. She ripped the hair ties out one at a time and set them down on the counter-top. With manicured fingers nimbly working their way through her roots to separate out the wavy locks, she thought for a few minutes on what exactly she should do with it.  
With slight hesitation, she reached behind her to grab a hair straightener out of a basket atop the toilet. When she plugged it in and raised the setting to it's highest, she threw away any doubts she had on straightening her hair. While it was a very boring hairstyle and she loved her sultry waves, her puddin' on the other hand, sure did love pin-straight hair on his girls.  
After doing her hair, she grabbed a can of hairspray and closed her eyes, letting the mist cover her as she held her breath.

You know, it was probably just her.  
Under all the makeup, hairspray and skimpy clothes, she was still just Harleen Quinzel – a former psychologist at Arkham Asylum and strange little girl that no one, not even the Joker, could ever truly love. She was broken and confused, taking complete solace in the one person who ever gave her the time of day, even if they were her patient at the time.

The bad part was that he didn't care for her at all. The worst part was that she knew it, too.

Harley took a couple of steps back until she was pressed against cold blue tiles. She felt _sexy_. With one last critical sweep of the eyes over her body and finding nothing of flaw, she puffed out her chest and put on her most confident smile.

_Showtime_.

Exiting the bathroom, she flicked off the switch and softly padded down the hallway. When she got to a particular door, she paused for just a second to listen. All she could hear was the quiet drone of a television and the fast taps of a keyboard, occasionally a hum of surprise coming from the one and only. Before her confidence could be broken, she rapped her knuckles on the door with a certain sureness in her actions. When it was only met with silence, she turned the doorknob and pushed it open. He turned his chair towards her, face glowing with the illumination from both the television screen in the further right hand corner, and the laptop placed in front of him on the desk.

She quizzically assessed his reaction as she stood in the doorway, opening it wider with the tips of her fingers. She took a deep breath and finally stepped forward, hips swaying seductively as she approached. His eyes narrowed.  
He didn't _want_ her. All he _wanted_ was watch the news and surf the web, trying to piece together more and more of the puzzle that is the dark knight. And he couldn't do that if this bitch is going to be falling all over him. When she sat on his knee and wrapped a pair of arms around his neck, his jaw set tight. As she loosened up his tie, her lips made a trail from his own painted ones and down to his collarbone, where she gave him a small love-bite.

"What'cha doin, puddin'?" She breathed against his skin, entwining her fingers through curly hair. The Joker breathed through his nose.

"Working," he responded curtly. Harley pulled away and batted thick, black eyelashes at him.

"Need a break?" A smile graced her features as she hiked a leg over his and sat in his lap, rolling her hips against him. He almost moaned out at the pleasure, but then remembered that there was work to be done, things to be searched and a Bat to be figured out.

"No." He turned back around in the chair towards the laptop, roughly pushing her off with an elbow. He didn't do so much as look down to her when she fell on the ground. She huffed and got to her feet almost immediately. "Now leave." The harshness of his tone made her back up and practically shrink under it.  
After a minute he realized that there was still a figure standing there next to his chair. With a sudden burst of anger he stood up and glared down at the blonde woman, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was working a tongue along the inside of his mouth, feeling the familiar scars he found there.  
Without any warning, he lifted a hand and smacked her hard across the face. The sharp sound of it rang in both of their ears and seemed to linger.

He didn't say a word, he just stared at her with an increasingly vicious sneer. She stood there dejectedly and let the tears well up in her eyes for the second time that night. She didn't want to appear so weak in front of him, but she just couldn't help it. He hurt. Everything he did hurt. Everything he said hurt.  
And she hated herself for putting up with it.  
"Go."

Wordlessly, she hung her head and left the room with tears and mascara flowing down her face. She lifted a hand to touch the burning red mark on her cheek when she was sure that he wouldn't see. She could hear an audible sigh of relief come from the study as she clicked the door closed, and she shook her head.

She went to the couch, just laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling as she cradled her cheek.

Her tears had dried. She became angry.

When she turned over, she saw the figure again, hunched against the wall and staring at her. Now she could make out the facial features, but she was sure that it had looked different before. Normal. Now it had a deep red smile that reached almost to its ears, its eyes were blackened and its face was stark white. It made bile rise in her throat.

When she focused too long on it, the thing started growling and sneering at her, and she did the same back just as viciously. She hated the way she was treated, but where else would she go? Where else _could _she go?

With a dissatisfied and helpless huff she roll over and let her eyes flutter closed. She thought and plotted what she would do to get revenge to pass the time. Hours passed by as she waited, listening to the distant sound of traffic and sometimes even the sound of a chair screeching against wood. Those were often followed by heavy footsteps, and she hoped every single time that they were coming for her, so she could say just what she thought of him, but they never did.

… When the door opened and a more happy voice beckoned out her name, she cautiously lifted herself up off the couch. When she shot a look over to the figure in the corner, it gave her a wide grin. She wanted to rip his throat out, she wanted to stab him and strangle him and let out all of her frustrations, and he was coming closer.

She readied her stance, and she could have sworn that she saw the figure hiding a chuckle from the corner of her eye. She was seething. As soon as the Joker came close enough, he swatted at him.

"I hate you," she growled venomously, punching and kicking at him with all her strength. It was infuriating, how little he was affected by her attempts. And now she could hear the thing in the corner _laughing_. His arms were being lifted, a pout on his lips.

She punched harder, trying to escape from the embrace.

But as soon as he enveloped her into a tight hug, those poor thoughts dissipated with each apology and promise he whispered in her ear.

That was all it took to make her forget, and that was all he _needed_ to make her forget - just one little 'sorry'. Of course she would remember once again when he went back to being cold and distant, as usual. But in those small windows of time she would be like putty in his hands, willing to do anything for him if it meant being loved. Then after he dropped her like she knew he would, she'd scream and yell and punch until she got the point across, and sometimes even threatened to leave. But he could always reel her back in just as easily as he let her go.

He did - he always did, and she always followed. Sometimes he wondered why she never left like she said, but then he would remember that he didn't care.

... But this time he realized that _she_ didn't care.  
And that's because she knew for the longest time that love most definitely _hurts_.


End file.
